


a tablet, encased in bright purple

by ba_lailah



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: An Old Person Learns to Meme, Character Does Not Understand Why They Suddenly Have a Cult, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-03 21:27:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20459732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ba_lailah/pseuds/ba_lailah
Summary: "Here," Crowley said, offering his tablet. "It's a meme."





	a tablet, encased in bright purple

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zoe324](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoe324/gifts).
  * Inspired by [cheep and twitter twenty million loves](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20284531) by [mitsein](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitsein/pseuds/mitsein), [seinmit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seinmit/pseuds/seinmit). 

Crowley had a nice laugh, Aziraphale thought absently as he flipped through a rare books catalogue. It wasn't at all demonic, except when he put a bit of evil on it to try to impress other demons. It was a quiet chuckle, half-swallowed, as though God had just let him in on a little bit of the Joke.

Aziraphale had priced two of the first editions he'd bought from the morning's round of estate sales before it occurred to him to wonder why he'd been thinking about Crowley's laugh.

"Crowley?" he called.

"Angel?" came the reply.

"Did you, er, laugh? Not just now, a moment ago."

"Oh. Maybe a bit?"

"Well, come share the joke, then."

Crowley wasn't quite living in Aziraphale's bookshop, but he wasn't not living there either. While accompanying Aziraphale to an estate sale, he had snapped up a beautiful leather armchair, the upholstery equivalent of his Bentley, and installed it in the back of the office, around behind a couple of the stacks where all Aziraphale could see of him were his booted feet, crossed at the ankle. Crowley liked enclosed spaces, Aziraphale had noticed. Aziraphale was careful not to relate this to reptilian habits, as it would be terribly rude to stereotype, but he had considered setting up a ceramic heater near the chair in case Crowley wanted to bask.

The booted feet uncrossed and Crowley strolled out into view. It was a very nice view. Aziraphale enjoyed it perhaps more than an angel strictly ought to.

"Here," Crowley said, offering his tablet. "It's a meme."

Aziraphale pursed his lips. "You know I don't understand those."

"You'll understand this one. Go on."

"Oh, very well." Aziraphale took the tablet and squinted at it. "It looks like... a balloon shaped like a giant baby being pulled into a tornado. With the word 'Tarrare.'" He looked up at Crowley, his face the picture of puzzlement.

"_You_ know," Crowley said. "France, 1790s..."

"Oh, that ghastly demon," Aziraphale said, shuddering. "I remember now. You had to discorporate him. Terrible business."

"He couldn't pass for human at _all_," Crowley scoffed. "It was embarrassing."

"What has that got to do with a balloon and a tornado?"

"Well, it's... he's sort of become... it's hard to explain."

Crowley reached for the tablet, but Aziraphale's attention, always captured more by words than by images, had moved on to the next tweet on the screen. He inexpertly scrolled it up, read it, and chuckled. "You ought to have shown me this one, it's much funnier!"

"Oh no, definitely not funny at all, give me that," Crowley said with some urgency.

"No, listen: 'A. has reheated his hot cocoa so many times it has the density of a newborn universe.'" Aziraphale laughed. "Why, that sounds like me just yesterday! I didn't know there were funny stories on Twitter. You only ever show me the pictures. Should I have a Twitter? I could tell funny stories." He finally caught the look on Crowley's face; it was somewhere in the neighborhood of appalled, being rapidly gentrified by embarrassment. "What? I suppose you think angels can't be funny. I'll have you know Heaven has many _excellent_ comedians."

"No, it's not that, it's... gah." Crowley ran a hand through his hair. "I, er. I tweeted that. About you."

"You did?" Aziraphale looked at the tablet. "You're @BentleyFan666?"

"Yeah, sorry, I got the account before Tadfield. Keep meaning to change it."

Aziraphale tapped the handle and read through the most recent tweets. The first made him smile. The second made him blush. "Well, that's terribly sweet of you," he murmured.

Crowley had his face in his hands and was making quiet keening noises.

"And you've put little hearts on all of them. What do the numbers mean?"

"Ah. That's." Crowley coughed. "That's the number of people who like what I wrote. Or retweeted it. You know, shared it for other people to see."

There was a long silence.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said in a strangled voice, "some of these are _very large numbers_."

"You are funny, all right?" Crowley said desperately. "You're funny and you don't even mean to be, and you're, you're _adorable_ sometimes, and I just wanted to write about it somewhere so I'd remember, and then it... went viral. A bit."

"Went viral," Aziraphale repeated, as though the words were an odd shape in his mouth. "That means... lots of people have seen it?"

"Quite a lot. Yes."

Something changed in Aziraphale's expression. "I have... fans?"

Crowley had tempted many people into making poor choices by promising them fame and adulation. He knew that look.

He carefully made his voice very casual. "Mind if I have that for a second?"

"Of course," Aziraphale said, handing him the tablet.

With a few quick taps, Crowley deleted the account. Then he dropped the tablet on the floor and ground it under his bootheel.

"Crowley! My carpet!"

A wave of Crowley's hand miracled away the fragments of plastic, metal, and glass. Aziraphale looked only slightly mollified.

"You don't want fans," Crowley said. "Trust me."

Aziraphale sighed. "I suppose you're right. Too much attention on our... living situation... might not be a good thing."

"That too," Crowley said. He suspected he ought to apologize. Demons didn't generally apologize, but he gave it his best try. "I was careless. Won't happen again."

"I forgive you," Aziraphale said, with love.

Crowley caught his gaze just for a moment, then glanced away. He couldn't handle Aziraphale's intensity for long, even with the sunglasses.

"Ah well," Aziraphale said, picking up the catalogue. "Back to laboring in obscurity."

Crowley looked around, fingers twitching. Somehow only a few weeks of modern social media had left him feeling edgy if he wasn't getting constant pings of incoming messages.

"Back wall, third cabinet," Aziraphale said without looking up. "The temperature-controlled one."

"Come again?" Crowley said, startled.

"That's where I keep the papyrus." Crowley could hear the smile in his voice. "If you'd like something to scroll through."

"You're _very_ funny, angel," Crowley muttered. But after a moment, he turned toward the cabinet. Perhaps refreshing his memory of hieroglyphs would distract him from thinking about what Aziraphale looked like when he blushed.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from [the fic that originated these tags](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20284531). I had not expected Shuri/Bucky and Crowley/Aziraphale to have so much in common and yet here we are.


End file.
